


The Pocket Sherlock Adventure

by RebeccaOTool



Series: The Pocket Adventures [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pocket John, Pocket Sherlock, Pocketlock, Shrinking, shrank, shrunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 17,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaOTool/pseuds/RebeccaOTool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to The Adventure of Pocket John. Sherlock has been shrunk to six inches tall by Moriarty. Life goes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock eyed the body sprawled beneath him. Sort of. It was lying down anyway. Middle aged manager of a rental car service, killed by his wife for the insurance money. She and her lover were trying to abscond to Hong Kong at the moment. He’d alert Lestrade in plenty of time.

Well, he’d have John do it.

John was watching him prod at the corpse, uneasy. “Sherlock, I know you’ve already solved it, can we please go?”

“In a moment. I’m not used to looking at things on this scale. I need to familiarize myself with what things look like.” Sherlock waved him off as he rounded the dead man’s hand. He grabbed the pinky finger with both hands and lifted it off the ground. It was almost too heavy to shift. Very interesting.

“The longer you mess about the more chance someone will see you.” John said. 

Sherlock dropped the digit. “Fine. It was the wife, by the way.”

“I figured that out.” John bent down and scooped Sherlock off the ground. “The insurance policy?”

“Correct. Also, they’ll find she has the poison in her luggage. Native to Hong Kong, where she and her lover are headed. Notice the discoloration of the nails…” Sherlock began explaining the signs John had missed (and a few he hadn’t: he was getting better at deduction). 

It’d been a week since Moriarty had shrunk Sherlock with the mysterious serum first used on John. As expected the miniscule lab sample had given few answers, and John’s blood fewer. Molly had done her best to ferret out what chemicals were involved, but was stymied for the moment. It was just where Moriarty wanted them: desperate for answers, obsessed with solving the cypher without its key.

He hadn’t accounted for Sherlock not particularly caring about being six inches tall. As long as he could still solve cases, it didn’t matter.

John tucked Sherlock back into the pocket of his overcoat. The laptop sat unused under his other arm. Only Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft knew about Sherlock. As far as the Police knew, Sherlock had come down with a highly infectious, but mostly harmless, strain of cold. It’d keep them at bay for a while.

“John. John! Be sure to tell them the poison will be in a travel shampoo bottle.” Sherlock shouted. 

“I will, I will.” John shushed him. Satisfied, Sherlock vanished into the fabric.

“Any luck?” Lestrade asked wearily. “Or was it so tedious he didn’t even bother?”

“Tedious yes, but he solved it.” John laid out the details, trying to ignore the wriggling on his chest. Sherlock wanted to tell it himself. This wasn’t nearly as satisfying. 

“Brilliant, as usual.” Lestrade dispatched a few officers to the airport. “When do you think our boy will be back on his feet?”  
“Hard to say.” John shrugged, jerking his shoulders as hard as he could. Sherlock stopped moving. “It’s nothing rest won’t cure, but without me there to keep him still—“

“I see. Better get back, John.” Lestrade gave him a brief grin. “Be sure to thank him.”

“I will.” John fled as quickly as was appropriate. He climbed into the car and removed Sherlock. “What was that about?”  
“You forgot the nails.” Sherlock grumbled. 

“I did not. There’s no way a normal-sized you would have seen it over the webcam.” John placed him in the dashboard cup holder. 

“…Oh.” 

“Yeah. Don’t worry, they’ll find it at the autopsy.” John assured him. “So, back home?”

“Yes. Maybe something will turn up on the website.” Sherlock looked a bit broody. It hadn’t taken much brainpower to figure the case out. He was bored again.

John thought for a second. “We could stop by Molly’s and see if she’s got a corpse you can look at. More research.”

Sherlock perked up slightly. “I would like to get a look at some pupils.”

John nodded and set off towards the morgue. “So, are we all disgusting to you, big pores, uneven skin, like in _Gulliver’s Travels_?”

“No more than usual.” Sherlock said placidly.

John decided to let that go. “We still need to find a few more bit of furniture for you.”

“If you take me back to that child-infested toy shop—“

“No, no, I found a miniature maker.” John shook his head. They wouldn’t be going near a toyshop after the last time. “Real cloth, stuffing, everything. We can get you a couch to sulk on.”

“I do not _sulk_.” Sherlock looked offended.

“Right.”

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock inspected the small shop’s offerings from inside a model flat while John distracted the proprietor. Nothing intrigued him, but very few furnishings ever did. There was a couch that looked promising, however, and built for his scale. John insisted on getting more things to make him feel ‘at home.’ Ridiculous. The flat was still home. It was actually more interesting at this size: there were all sorts of spots he’d never noticed before that he could hide in while John interviewed clients. He’d solved one just by examining a lady’s shoes from under a loose floorboard (covered in dirt from the docs, she’d lost a grandmother’s ring while boarding a ship and didn’t want to explain to her husband).

The next few rooms yielded nothing of interest. Bored, he walked up the flimsy stairs to check the bedroom. This place was sterile as a cheap motel suite, no occupants, nothing to stir his mind. 

The bedroom had a touch of personality to it: the proprietor trying to appeal to buyers, no doubt. A postage-stamp sized Van Gogh on the wall, badly blurred. A four-poster bed. Several ‘silver’ hairbrushes and feminine items scattered on the vanity. If it had been the room of a real woman, she’d be an Adler type: putting on a good show, but telling nothing.

What might Miss Adler pay to get a reduced Sherlock into her hands? 

Shaking himself, Sherlock walked back to the living room. Maybe this size had affected him in less obvious ways. Best keep an eye on that.

John casually laid his hand on the table outside the door, fingers twitching ever-so-slightly. Sherlock hurried out while the proprietor’s back was turned. A simple system, but it worked. So far.

John slipped him into the pocket of his shirt. He was further cloaked by the light jacket John wore. Not that he expected to be detected. It was amazing how blind people were. Even if someone did spot him, they’d assume any number of things before the truth. A trick of the light. A bit of underdone potato. A toy.

The last one gave him pause. Children didn’t assume things. When confronted with the impossible they not only believed, they found it normal. He suppressed a shudder as John began buying furniture. 

The toy shop had been John’s idea. He’d been directed there by the mother of one of his clinic patients, promised good deals and realistic items. Sherlock had only agreed to go since he wanted to see more of the world at his new scale.   
Then he got bored.

John, busy among the racks upon racks of doll clothes, hadn’t noticed him scrambling out of the jacket pocket and onto the shelf. He’d felt almost back to normal, skulking among the rows of plastic figures and boxes, watching people unseen. He wouldn’t let John walk off without revealing himself. It was more or less safe.

Then that idiotic, sticky-fingered, miniature monster had grabbed him. 

He let out a yelp and immediately cursed himself. If he remained quiet and still the child might have just assumed he was a toy and placed him back on the self. Now it was _interested_.

Data poured in as the child looked at him stupidly. Under the age of five. Dressed in gender-neutral jeans and red shirt. Hair was long, blond, eyes blue and crusty with something he sincerely hoped wasn’t pinkeye. Mouth agape, front left baby tooth slightly chipped. It was holding him tightly, no chance of escape via strength. He’d have to talk his way out or attract John’s attention. 

“Are you a fairy?” The child’s voice was piercingly high. 

Sherlock held in a wince and said as loudly and with as much authority as he could muster: “No. I am a detective. Put me down.”

The child considered this for a few moments. “Mummy says I get a new toy today.”

“Lovely. Put me down.”

“Mummy, can I have a detective?” The child looked over its shoulder at a lumbering female figure steadily getting nearer. 

“JOHN!”

John spun about, looking for the source of the cry, hand slapping at the empty pocket. He spotted the detective clenched in the child’s fist and his stomach dropped. “Sherlock, bloody hell!”

“You _swore_.” The child’s eyes grew huge. “Mummy, he said—“

“This belongs to me, thank you.” John pried the child’s fingers lose and rescued Sherlock. 

“Hey, let go of my boy!” The woman grabbed his arm before he could hide Sherlock. Sherlock went ridged. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Mummy, _you_ said—“

“Hush Joffery.” She didn’t let go of John’s arm. “Well?”

“Um, I, uh…” John swallowed hard. “Your boy picked up my…rare…doll.”

She eyed the detective and Sherlock tried not to blink. “This?”

“Yes. It’s a present for my niece and I put him---IT down for a second to find some accessories.” John tried not to let his hand clench. He could feel Sherlock’s heart hammering. “I didn’t mean to scare the child, but he’s---IT’S my doll.”

“MY DETECTIVE!” Joffery screeched. 

John winced and jerked his arm away. He hastily tucked Sherlock into the pocket of his coat. “Sorry, no detectives here. Just me and my doll.”

“Mummy he said he was a detective, I WANT A DETECTIVE!” Joffery was in full tantrum mode. 

The mother gave John one last suspicious glance and hustled her child from the store. “You’re not getting anything unless you calm down!”

“But I waaaaaAAAAAnnnnnt iiiiiiiiit…” The wail went on as they left.

John didn’t even look at the pocket. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was bored.” Sherlock’s unapologetic voice barely reached his ears. “I forgot about things that might be eve level to shelves.”

“You forgot _children_ would be in a _toy shop_?!”

“Yes.”

John held in the urge to slap a palm to his forehead. “We are having a long talk about this at home.”

“Joy. Don’t forget the clothes, John.”

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock studied the floor of the car, hands fused to the wire springs under the seat for stability. He’d have John get it cleaned, far too much personal data was ground into the gray carpet. 

“We’re here.” The car lurched to a stop, nearly taking Sherlock off his feet despite his grip. He let go of the spring and squirmed out between John’s heavy shoes: it was a tight squeeze, even for him. 

“Find anything interesting?” John asked dryly, offering his hand.

“More than I thought. Too many personal details; It needs to be cleaned.” Sherlock brushed a dust bunny the size of a housecat off the lapel of his new coat. It wasn’t nearly as nice as his normal long coat, but it’d serve. 

“Will anyone my scale notice these details?” 

“I assume Moriarty has shrunken men working for him for the exact purpose of trailing my movements.”

“That’s extremely paranoid and probably correct.” John made a mental note to pick up a steam cleaner as he slowly lifted his hand, palm flat. “Will it be safe for now?”

“I think so.” Sherlock wobbled for a second before finding his footing on the callouses below his feet. He spent more time in John’s clothing than in his hands. 

John tried to keep his hand steady as he walked up to the flat. Even so, Sherlock became unbalanced and fell to his knees when he started up the stairs. Gigantic fingers curled over Sherlock’s head, and he flinched. 

“Sorry, I didn’t—“

“I’m fine.” Sherlock remained where he was and John forced his fingers to uncurl. He hated being held. John did his best to oblige, but sometime there was nothing for it. Moriarty must have been sniggering at them; he’d made Sherlock frightened of human contact in the few hours the detective had been his captive. Even John’s touch made him flinch if it was unexpected.

Finally they were inside. John deposited Sherlock on the kitchen counter and began sorting through the small assortment of items they’d purchased. The couch had been nearly as expensive as a full-sized piece, but Sherlock had insisted. 

He eyed it critically. “We need to build some walkways so I can get around the flat by myself.”

“You do realize it’d take a few hours for you to get from one end of the flat to the other that way?” John laid out a small dinette set. “Not to mention the time it’d take me to rig that up? I’m sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t care for it, either.”

“We need to set a good stage. Moriarty needs to think I’m preparing to stay in the flat to try to find the antidote. He’ll wonder if I don’t design things to make that easier.” Sherlock kicked off the uncomfortable plastic doll shoes. Every other piece of clothing he had was somewhat workable, but there was no way to make proper shoes at his scale, as far as he’d found. 

John watched him for a few moments. Sometimes the absurdity of the whole thing slapped him afresh. He’d only spent about a week and a half at that size, but it’d felt like a year. Sherlock was already at two weeks, and there was no end in sight. “Fine. You draw up some plans and I’ll build it.”

Sherlock had already whittled a pencil nib down to size, and there was plenty of paper about. He set to work while John put their purchases away and blogged. He’d obviously not revealed Sherlock’s predicament to the internet, and to keep up appearances he’d wrote about anything else he could. Moriarty wasn’t their only concern: if Sherlock’s fan base sensed something was amiss and decided to uncover it, it could lead to disaster. It was bad enough that he wasn’t showing up at crime scenes anymore. 

“I’ll hint about your upcoming trip to the middle east in this blog.” John called over his shoulder. “Working for a Prince, that should take up a month or two.”

Sherlock grunted assent at him, not listening. He was covering the paper with oversized (to himself, anyway) drawings and instructions. If he lost himself in the task he could forget about the circumstances for a short while.

After some time the wood under him drummed gently. He looked up from the papers to John, who was tapping his index finger on the tabletop. “Yes?”

“Do you want me to pop out and get some supplies so we can get started on this?”

Sherlock thought it over. “I’ll go with you. Moriarty—“

“It’s what he would expect?” John smiled. It was almost a joke, how often they put on a show for their invisible audience. 

“No. If I’m alone he may attempt to abduct me.” 

The smile dropped off his face. “I thought the whole point of this was so he could control you without having you literally in hand.”

“You rescued me earlier than he anticipated. There are things he left undone.” Sherlock’s voice was very tight. “If the opportunity presents itself, he will act.”

It took a moment for John to understand: Sherlock was terrified. There were so few instances where he’d seen it that he’d nearly missed the signs. Baskerville and the night he’d been drugged and tortured were the only times it’d happened. No matter how unlikely Moriarty’s actions were, Sherlock was desperate to stay safe in John’s care. After his experiences, it was hardly an unnatural reaction. 

But Sherlock couldn’t admit that, not when logically he’d made such a good argument for Moriarty watching them from afar. He wouldn’t say aloud that he needed someone to watch him, defend him, keep the monsters at bay. Not unless John wrung it out of him.

“Good point.” John extended his hand. “I should have seen it sooner.”

Sherlock nodded. “Well, at least this lack of observance didn’t get anyone killed.”

John didn’t force the look of annoyance as he held his hand out. Well, not much. He wouldn’t make Sherlock admit anything. Even if it meant playing dumb.

It was what friends did. 

0o0o0o0o0

Happy 4th!


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t always the same dream, but it came often enough. The subconscious was something that didn’t conform to the rules he knew: deductions didn’t work when a purple hippo flew through your flat window and began singing ‘Swany River’ (though that could probably be attributed to a particularly bad takeaway).

In his dreams he was still proper scale. John wasn’t. It would have made more sense if the dreams had begun that situation was real, but they hadn’t. Only when their positions reversed did Sherlock start having the dream.

It was the same each time. He was standing below a three story building that had been demolished in reality some months back. In his subconscious it was still standing, crumbling fragments of decayed mortar onto the city streets.

Moriarty stood above him, cell phone in one hand, John in the other.

“Shirley, I believe I’ve found something that belongs to you.” Moriarty’s voice was high and gleeful. 

“Don’t let him go.” Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to keep emotion out of his voice.

“I wonder…what is it about John that makes you go all weak-kneed?” Moriarty dangled John by his psychosomatically-lamed leg. It was too far to hear the shriek in the open-air, but it traveled through the phone just fine. “Anyone else’s life in danger doesn’t even make you blink, but put one little gun to his head and you go all weepy.”

Moriarty did something unseen three stories away and John cried out again.

“STOP!” Sherlock forced himself not to run towards the door. If he entered the building John would fall. “What do you want?”

“What could I want?” Moriarty mused. “I already have your pet by the, ahem, short hairs, so to speak. So, do I want to draw this out, or---“

Moriarty thrust one open, empty hand over his head.

“end with a bang and a whimper?”

Sherlock’s eyes were trained on the falling speck cartwheeling through the air. He had another five seconds before John fell into reach, and unless he tempered his movements to slow the velocity, he’d splat on Sherlock’s palm like an overripe fruit on an overpass. Not to mention what the pavement would do.

His calculations were correct, his movements precise. He stretched his hands high, knowing he would save John, he had to save him, there was no question that he would save him.

He caught a brief glimpse of John’s face, mouth open, eyes wide.

And he missed. Every. Single. Time.

It had to mean something. Sherlock brooded on the problem from his new couch on John’s bedside table while the doctor snored softly. He’d saved John enough times in their partnership. He always saved him. Or vise-versa. And now, John was back to normal. Why have these dreams now, when there was no chance of the scenario occurring?

John would have some theory about deeply buried feelings concerning his one and only friend. Something with love and trust and bonding issues….ecch. No, there had to be a better reason for this. Something he’d overlooked, something that niggled at the back of his mind, something he’d forgotten.

He always saved John. That’s what it came down to. Why doubt himself now, when…when…

When he was in no position to do anything if harm should come John’s way.

Ah.

The pleasant buzz that accompanied solving problems failed to materialize. He’d sorted out his dream, but reality remained. If something should happen to John, he was out of it. 

It wasn’t just concern for John that drove his mind. It was also for himself: if something happened to John, he was as good as dead. The few people who knew about his condition weren’t apt to treat him with anything close to John’s humanity. Coddling. Lab experimentation. Display inside a mason jar.

He shuddered. This was always so much worse at night, left alone with his brain and no way to sate its hunger until morning. He could wake John up and have him scroll through web pages, but that would lead to a conversation. He didn’t want to hear about how John could look after himself and that Sherlock should just worry about tracking cases and Moriarty. 

He hopped out of bed and began taking stock of the tabletop, looking for nicks and scratches deep enough that he might use to climb to the floor. Best to know these things now.

Just in case.

When dawn broke, he’d found a way to get to the floor (well, close enough to jump without seriously hurting himself), and felt no better about his situation. 

John stirred beside him. “Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

John, hair mussed, clothing askew, looked him over. “You didn’t sleep.”

“Bored.”

“You were too bored to _sleep_?”

Sherlock gave him a withering stare. “If you’re done being critical, can we get moving? I want to start on the thoroughfare from the kitchen to the living room.”

John resisted the urge to burrow back under the blanket and forget his flat-mate was the size of a chipmunk. But only just.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued


	5. Chapter 5

“Really, I could just use the drain snake, its fine.” Mrs. Hudson ‘s face was pale with worry. She’d dropped an antique ring down the kitchen drain and Sherlock, bored to the brink of madness, had volunteered to retrieve it. 

“It’ll be a good chance to see if any electronic bugs have been placed inside. I’ve been meaning to check.” Sherlock waved her off. Maybe he’d finally went over that brink. 

He was dressed in a ridiculous blue and white striped old-style bathing costume. It was the only swimsuit that fit his frame (technically the frame of an old doll Mrs. Hudson kept on the mantelpiece, but they weren’t splitting hairs). 

“What are the odds of that?” She looked aghast. “It’s _my_ drain.”

“Can’t be too careful.” Sherlock peered past the rubber flaps. “Got a hold of the loop, John?”

“Of course.” John, feeling a bit cooped-up himself, hadn’t said a word against it. It was only a drain, and he had tied a twine lifeline securely around the detective, what could happen? “Just tug twice if there’s an issue.”

“There won’t be.” Sherlock looped the twine around himself a few more time. “The s-bend is only a foot down. I’ll be fine.”

No danger at all. That’s what John told himself as Sherlock vanished into the darkness. It was an old building, the pipes were the size of railway tubes. Relatively.

“What if there are rats?” Mrs. Hudson shone a flashlight down the tube and made out a dark blot shrinking away. “I keep a clean house, but the drains are the city’s responsibility.”

“Mrs. Hudson, you’re not making this easier.” Sherlock’s voice echoed as it traveled up the tube. “Just don’t touch the dispose-all switch and I’ll be fine.”

John lowered the twine inch by inch, feigning calmness as his disquiet grew. Why had he assumed there was no danger? He was an idiot! Rats, cockroaches, God only knew what bits of detritus had been shoved down the sink in its time. He was half tempted to pull Sherlock back up.

“John stop, the water—ARGH!”

“What, what?!” John refrained from yanking the twine up and likely bashing Sherlock’s head in.

“The water in the bend. I didn’t want to be dunked quite so thoroughly.” Sherlock’s voice was a good deal quieter, but no less annoyed for that. John though he heard a faint splash. “I’ll have to swim. Give me three inches of slack.”

“It’s three feet deep to you?” John asked as he spooled off the twine. “You shouldn’t need to swim for that.”

“It’s ten feet, relatively.” Sherlock called. “I’ve already unspooled my end of the twine.”

“You haven’t undone the knot.”

There was no answer apart from faint splashes. 

“Sherlock, no!” Mrs. Hudson peered into the depths, aghast. John resisted the urge to move her aside and look down.  
“Retie the knot.” John wished he could reach down the drain and rescue/strangle his friend.

“I need to tie the ring off. It’ll be too slippery for me to hold on to.” Sherlock said, “Mrs. Hudson, hold that light steady or turn it off!”

She obliged, but didn’t look happy. “Just hurry, dear. I don’t like you mucking about down there any more than you have to.”  
“Have to dive…wait thirty seconds, then pull the twine out.”

“Got it.” John fixed his eyes on the kitchen clock. “Go.”

He waited, hand sweating, twine slightly damp between his fingertips. As soon as the clock hit thirty (maybe half a second early), he began pulling. The emergent twine was slimly and stained a deepening green. “Got it?”

There was no answer.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson peered down the drain. “Love, are you there? John, I don’t think he’s there.”

“Damn it, if you’re doing this on purpose to make note of the pipe’s acoustics or some stupid thing…” John pulled the twine as quickly as he dared, not caring if Sherlock got a bit bruised on the way. It seemed to take forever, but was only five seconds.

A shining silver ring was tied to the end of the rope. Of Sherlock there was no sign.

“SHERLOCK!” John threw open the cabinets. The s-bend gleamed dully at him, a dusty wrench clamped about it. He began twisting at it. A human body could go three minutes without air, and two of those minutes were already up. By the time he got this pipe all the way undone—

“Stand back.” 

John barely had time to look up before a BLOODY BLOW TORCH shrank his vision with blinding light. “Where did you get that?!”

“Crembrule torch, dearie.” She fired it above the bend, and hopefully above Sherlock’s head. “Keep working at the other end, please. I don’t want Sherlock drowning on my account.”

John twisted the fittings, and soon his end of the pipe came loose. A small gush of filthy water soaked his hands. “Sherlock?! Say something!”

“Tell Mrs. Hudson not to torch any lower. My foot’s caught in…well, something I’d rather not identify.” 

John could have cried from relief. He opted to slap at the pipe open handed, hopefully rattling some sense into the detective’s head. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

“At the moment nothing besides being trapped in a filthy pipe.” Sherlock had the nerve to sound petulant. 

“It’s your own fault. Why the hell didn’t you hang onto the ring and let me pull you free?”

“I _tried_. I told you it was slippery.”  
“…Oh.” 

Mrs. Hudson quit torching the pipe. It was melted partway through. “Out of fuel. I’ll have to pop off to the shop for a new can. And a plumber, I suppose. Will you boys be alright for twenty minutes?”

“I suppose so.” Now that the danger had passed, John had to control a fit of laughter. Sherlock Holmes, greatest mind of their time, stuck in a drain. There were some things sheer brains couldn’t get you out of.

“Do I have a choice?” Sherlock snarled. “GO!  
”  
Mrs. Hudson clucked at him as she gathered up her purse. “I told you to let me snake the drain.”

John was glad she left before the litany of curses began to trickle from the pipe.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

John kept his gaze averted as Sherlock paddled in the sink back in their rooms, getting the last of the filth off. He’d emerged from the pipe thoroughly coated with green gunk, looking every bit a gremlin. He’d been chilled, sodden, and nearly drowned.

But it hadn’t been boring.

“The technique is flawed, but I could get a lot of information from drains.” Sherlock emerged from the soapy water and began toweling off with a bit of dishrag. “Nobody tries to hide what goes down the drain, it’s just gone as far as they care. Blood soaked clothing, murder weapons, ANYTHING!”

“Not to mention bits of food to get caught in and drown.” 

“…I said the technique was flawed.” Sherlock admitted while he dressed. “Maybe I can adapt a model submersible for drains.”

“Maybe you should take things a bit slower.” John leaned on the counter, one hand propped under his chin. “It’s not like you’d be doing this if you were really fixated on the antidote. You’ll blow your cover.”

Sherlock scowled. “It’s time to get on a case. Moriarty knows I’ll have hit a wall by now, be getting bored, which is TRUE. Hasn’t Lestrade said anything?”

John scrolled through Sherlock’s texts. “A murder in Hyde park. Old man, apparently killed with his walking stick.”

“Boring.” Sherlock muttered, pacing.

John moved on to the computer. “Here’s one, foreign dignitary’s fiancée went missing in London a few days ago.”

“Boring.” Sherlock groaned. “Baskerville, THAT was a case! What I wouldn’t _give_ for monsters in the fog!”

John stopped cold. “You may get your wish.”

“Hmm?”

“Little girl reports ‘fairies’ have invaded her home.” John turned the monitor so Sherlock could see. “And she had a picture.”

A blurry, bad photo to be sure. But it clearly showed a man with badly-made pantomime fairy wings strapped to his back. Were it not for the giant penny he held, the scale would have been impossible to determine. All was dark around him. Enough light to show his face, however. 

The shark-like grin was unmistakable.

“Moriarty.” Sherlock murmured. “Why is this in the news?”

John flipped through the page. “She’s the daughter of a member of parliament. Says her ‘fairy friend’ has visited her every night this week. They’re treating it like a joke, of course.”

“And when she turns up missing it’ll be seen as a prank gone too far.” Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth as he made his deductions. “By the time they’ve figured out she’s truly gone her father will be in Moriarty’s pocket…perhaps literally.”

John kept scrolling through the information but found nothing more that helped. “He’s calling you out. What do we do?”

“We meet with the girl.”

“Easier said than done. She must go to a private school, and I can’t very well go waltzing up to her on the street.” John looked over at him. “Wait, you said ‘we.’”

“Obviously. She’s enamored of fairies. And I…happen to be the correct size.” Sherlock’s voice grew disdainful. “We’ll have to get a costume.”

“You _can’t_ be suggesting—“

“I am _suggesting_ nothing. We know Moriarty shrank himself both to taunt me and to get in this girl’s good graces. By letting the story go to the media he’s inviting me to the party. He’ll expect me to go to her. If I deviate he’ll know I know his plan.” Sherlock’s face was stony. “He’ll kill her and move on to another little girl if I don’t.”

“And if you do, we’re playing into his plans, not to mention exposing you to another person.” John kept his voice down. Shouting could render Sherlock deaf. “Is there no middle ground here?”

“Just because I’ll be meeting with the girl doesn’t mean I have to be stupid about it. He’ll expect me to hide in your pocket, not expose myself. He’ll never think I’d sink to dealing with _children_.” Sherlock shuddered like it was a dirty word. “We’ll need glitter as well.”

“And what do you plan to say? ‘Hi, I’m a fairy sent to tell you your friend is bad, don’t climb out any windows with him?’”

“You’ll need to speak to the father too. We have to find out what he’s involved in that Moriarty wants a piece of.”

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

“We may have to call Mycroft if he doesn’t talk—“

“One second, how am I supposed to get you to her in the first place, let alone her father?” John tapped the table lightly, jarring Sherlock out of his train of thought.

Sherlock gazed at him, eyes dancing with excitement. “You’re a _Doctor_ , John. I imagine there are a few ways to gain access to a little girl’s room.”

“You don’t understand how vile that sounds, do you?”

It was no use. Sherlock was formulating a plot. Defeated, John turned back to the computer. Better start looking for a local shop that carried fairy dolls. 

‘I’m going to stuff him in the frilliest, laciest, most glittery thing I can find, God help me.’

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued


	7. Chapter 7

It was neon green, with a vague suggestion of a leaf pattern hidden under a shock of glitter. Sherlock tried not to feel ill as he shrugged the costume on. The thing shed glitter with every step he took. He’d be sparkling for weeks.

“Don’t forget the hat.” John didn’t conceal his amusement as he flipped a tiny ‘Peter Pan’ style cap at Sherlock’s feet. “You can’t be a proper elf without it.”

“You are enjoying this far too much.” Sherlock growled and snatched up the hat. 

“This was your idea.” John reminded him. “And unless you can fly, you won’t make a convincing fairy. It’s this or nothing.”

“Moriarty just put on wings.” Sherlock mumbled, trying to make the hat stay on his head. “This is overkill.”

“And he looked like a joke. You want her to believe in you, you have to go all out.” John thought for a second. “If she seems skeptical, you might try pretending to fall down dead.”

“…Are you being funny?”

“Peter Pan states that disbelief kills fairies and clapping brings them back. Didn’t your Mother ever read to you?”

“I could read at the age of three and I was beyond fairy stories well before that.” Sherlock tugged on the costume, trying vainly to make it less ridiculous, and the tin bells tied to the sleeves and leggings jingled. He winced and restrained himself from ripping them off.

“That’s…both unsurprising and terribly depressing.” John looked less amused. “More information you deleted from your hard drive?”

Sherlock glared at him. “Are you going to play psychiatrist or are we going to save a little girl’s life and stop Moriarty?”

“You don’t know Moriarty’s plans to kill her.” John held out his hand. “No, no, I know, assume the worst.”

“Right.” Sherlock stepped on, trying to ignore the slippery feeling under his feet. Damn the person who made green nylon slippers for this outfit. “All that remains is to find out what the girl’s father is involved in that Moriarty wants. His record must be clean or he would have simply blackmailed him, no need to involve the child.”

“Of course Moriarty chooses the world’s only honest politician.” John carefully slid Sherlock into the breast pocket of his shirt. The day was too warm for a coat. “So, Mycroft got an appointment for me to meet with his Honor at three?”

“Yes, and if you ever breath a word about the costume to Mycroft, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Funny, I ran into Althea in the shop where I bought it.” John said innocently. He could feel Sherlock’s burning glare through the shirt. “It was the oddest thing.”

“You’re meeting to discuss test results from a school exam with her father.” Sherlock said through clenched teeth. There would be no end to teasing after this. “You have the file?”

“Yes, complete with the doctored results.” John picked up the large envelope and hurried down to the street. “I don’t think a predisposition towards genetic hearing loss is all that urgent.”

“Nor do I, but people are so attached to their offspring. ‘Ooh, don’t talk about murder in front of my girl’ and ‘No, he didn’t know he was adopted, why did you tell him?’ He had green eyes, there was no way they were his parents. ” Sherlock grumbled.

The motion of John walking didn’t bother him, but every step took him closer to dealing with a child while John tried to find answers. All he’d likely get was a song and dance Moriarty left behind to frustrate him.

“I wonder if Moriarty is still playing at being a fairy.” John held a phone to his ear as he hailed a cab. It was enough to preserve the appearance of sanity. “Wouldn’t mind getting my hands on him at that size.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock contemplated the image, and his spirits lifted. Slightly. “If he plans to come for her tonight he may well be. We know it takes three hours to regain proper scale, and we’ve no idea how the body might react to repeated changes in size.”

“The body goes through hell during normal growth spurts. It’s a wonder this doesn’t leave people in more of a wreck.” John through back to something Sherlock had said. “Moriarty told you that shrinking drained the body of its resources.”

“Yes.” Sherlock folded his hands pensively, glad no one could see him. A pensive elf wasn’t helpful in any situation. “One of the very few things of any substance. So, did he let that slip intentionally, or was it so useless that he didn’t care?”

“You think on it. I’ve got to review this file.” John slid the phone into an unoccupied pocket as a cab pulled over. Sherlock would be occupied by thoughts of Moriarty until they reached the Lord’s manor.

John suppressed a shiver. 

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued


	8. Chapter 8

“ _This_ is your brilliant plan? Sneak into her room and—and—Sherlock, she could break you in two!” John hissed.

“She’s quite gentle, I won’t be in any danger from her.” Sherlock said dismissively. “More likely Moriarty’s men when they come to snatch the girl will be my biggest problem.”

John groaned and buried his face in his hands. He was hiding in loo after a brief meeting with the father. He’d tried to find a way to meet with the girl, but her father insisted her hearing was fine, and the results needed to be re-run. John, at a loss, excused himself to the washroom and was quickly running out of time. Sherlock was pacing the sink top, raring to get started.

“I can’t leave you here alone.” John dropped his hands to the counter. “Like you said, Moriarty will have backup, and once he sees you, that’s it. And in case you’re wrong--”  
“I’m not.”

“—You’ll be at the mercy of a little girl we’ve never even met, not to mention anyone and anything else living in this house. Dogs, cats, maids—“

“The girl won’t hurt me as she’s quite gentle: there’s origami all over the place, badly done but showing improvement. Keeps one rabbit in a hutch, pellet bags and carrot shavings in the garbage, no danger there. Her father is distant, works late, didn’t double-check your credentials, won’t stay at her bedside long enough to notice me. He’s working on a deal with the land commission in his district, paperwork on his desktop, wants to build an amusement park to attract tourists. That’s what Moriarty wants in on, I suspect as another way to tighten his grip on this part of England, along with money-laundering opportunities. So, can I get on with it?”

John felt looseness in his jaw, but refused to entertain Sherlock. “How am I supposed to collect you in the morning, assuming you’re not living in a jar or kidnapped?”

“A stake-out John, surly you had them in the army!”

“Not so much, no.” John poked him, lightly. “And I can’t just run in here, gun blazing. If you get in over your tiny curly head, you’re stuck.”

“And what am I when I’m alone and normal size?” Sherlock demanded. “There’s no more time, John! Leave me in the hallway just outside the door, I’ll get into her room and get her attention when her father leaves the room at bedtime.”

“It’s only four in the afternoon! It’ll be hours until—“

“Are you quite all right, Doctor?” A stern voice used to giving speeches broke his whispers apart.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, spilt some soap down my shirt.” John laughed nervously. “Two seconds, your honor.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly. “Drop me in the hallway, John. Wait outside in case Moriarty’s men are waiting there too. I’ll find a way to contact you.”

“Sherlock—“

“Doctor?” The voice was slightly incensed now.

Defeated, John scooped Sherlock into one hand and didn’t hide him in his shirt. Sherlock, for his part, was vibrating with something a normal person would have called fear. Excitement was the proper word.

The father was waiting, eyes slightly narrowed. “May I assume this concludes our meeting, Doctor?”

“Yes, I think that’ll do. Just be sure you get Amy checked out as soon as possible.” John smiled thinly. “With preventative treatment, she could—“

“Yes, yes, I understand. Good day.” The man scowled slightly and ushered him toward the door. 

John hurried towards the alcove. Next to a doorway to what seemed to be his lordship’s study, he dropped the file. “Uh, sorry, I’ll just—“

His words fell away. The man hadn’t even seen him out. Very distracted. If he’d really been here on medical business, he would have been worried about the child.

“John, I’ve got to go!” Sherlock wriggled impatiently beneath his fingertips. Fighting every instinct he had as a doctor, solider, and friend, he gently placed Sherlock on the plush pile carpet. The detective sank to his knees in the stuff, face alight with mad excitement.

“If you can get to a phone, call me.” John stood, feeling useless. He was the one who was normal, he should be taking the risks. “I’ll keep an eye on things as best I can from outside.”

“Yes, yes, fine, good, go!” Sherlock darted into the study as quickly as the carpet allowed.

John’s heart sank, but he forced himself to turn away and walk out the door. It was out of his hands now.

‘God, please don’t let that git get stepped on while looking at an interesting piece of dust under someone’s desk.’

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock kicked impatiently at the strands of carpet clinging to his ridiculous costume. It was slowing him down far too much. If not for necessity, he’d shed the damn thing and go starkers. But he needed the girl to believe his story. Not to mention what might happen if he found Moriarty on his scale. 

The study was dull enough, law books and military knickknacks strewn about. A few more empty bottles than was proper, he was verging on alcoholism. No computer, he liked doing things the old fashioned way. No drawings or souvenirs from the daughter, he kept his work and personal life separate. Classic workaholic single father.

Sherlock stepped under an end table. He’d have to find the daughter’s room and hide himself as quick as possible. He needed to get the lay of the land before night fell. But there was a chance of being spotted in the daylight. Best to wait until the father came in for a drink, which would be any minute now. His hands had a small tremor when he’d been talking to John. 

Sherlock wasn’t disappointed. The father entered the room fifteen minutes later and headed straight for the liquor cabinet. However, he shut the door behind him.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He’d have to try squirming under the space at the bottom of the door. It looked to be wide enough to admit his body. He’d just have to pick a moment where the man was distracted. Again, he’d soon be well into his cups, no problem there. 

Sherlock watched him drink, impatience growing. He’d ferreted out everything useful and a damn sight more about this man. This was just a waste of time.

As soon as the man started flipping through some paperwork spread on the desktop, Sherlock made his move. Even with the carpet slowing him up, he made the distance quickly. The door loomed above him, a monolith in oak. He ignored it. The space was easily wide enough to admit his slim body.

He peeked under. No one in the hallway. Maid likely on a smoking break. Perfect.

He dropped to his hands and knees and scurried forward. The girl’s room was likely on the second floor. The stairs would be a problem, but the old manors still had dumbwaiters or at least the shaft, he’d be able to climb and—

Something grabbed the back of his costume, slamming him to a halt. 

For a second Sherlock was sure the man had someone snuck up on him, snatched the back of his outfit. He froze instinctively, heart hammering. Nobody must touch him, that was the worst possible outcome.

After a few more seconds he risked a glance back. His costume had caught a splinter on the bottom of the doorframe. 

Feeling a bit of an idiot, Sherlock detangled the fiber and finished crawling under the door. At least no one had seen.  
The hallway gaped before him, empty and vast. 

Sherlock felt a faint flutter of fear. He’d never been on the floor without John nearby. John was an object of permanence, something he knew in and out, big or small. This was all unknown variables. 

Solution: find out as much as he could to eliminate those variables. 

He started forwards, eyes scanning the hall, trying to catch things above as well as at his level. Nothing new here: small serving staff, well trained, most spots clean enough for a Lord. Few signs that a child lived here, a cracked cup, a chipped picture frame, an ancient smudge of peanut butter behind a hall table. No toys, no drawings.

It took almost an hour for him to get from hallway to kitchen. He was actually a little worked over: the carpet fibers made for a hard slog. 

Above, a cook worked at the stove. It was dinner time. No sign that anyone ate downstairs, the dining room was deserted, table unset.

The cook had thick pants, to avoid spatter burns. The cuffs were upturned, starched stiff. The Lord of the manor had certain expectations of his staff, down to the smallest detail.

It was perfect.

As the cook put together a plate of chicken and vegetables, Sherlock slipped into the upturned cuff. He tugged a few fibers loose, creating hand holds. It would be rough, be it’d cut his travel time to minutes. 

As the cook finally started upstairs, Sherlock’s stomach dropped. He was flipped nearly ninety degrees, clinging to the cuff, the tight wedging the only thing saving him from dangling, or falling completely out. He didn’t dare shut his eyes: if he missed the lay of the house he’d be at a severe disadvantage.

After what seemed like ages (two minutes, fourteen seconds) the cook stopped at a doorway, unmarked in any way. “Miss Amy? Supper.”

“Come in.” The voice was light and high. Sherlock dropped to the ground the moment the door opened. The girl was seated at her desk, a large thick book open before her. No computer here either, the father’s taste in old-fashion had rubbed off on her.

Sherlock sought shelter under a nearby jumble of stuffed toys while he surveyed the room. Messier than the father approved of, a cry for attention. Four-poster bed, replica antiques, no sense wasting the real thing on a child, small bookshelf crammed with childish tripe and school texts (often the same thing), a large Victorian dollhouse, and several other things normal to a little girl’s room as far as Sherlock saw.

The wheelchair was well-made, the most modern convenience in the room. He should have suspected as much when the cook hadn’t made his way upstairs. No wheel tracks on the thick carpets, she must use a side entrance. No wonder the father had only shut the door and not locked it; she’d never be able to maneuver over the thick pile with this thing. Intentional, a way to keep the child at a distance.

God, people were so dull.

The cook left and the girl started into her supper listlessly, eyes glued to the book. She’d be easy enough to avoid until the time was right. He pressed back a little, trying to spot the best place to make his magical appearance from once bedtime had come and gone.

Then the stack of toys tumbled down around his ears.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock was being crushed by a large stuffed bear. 

No amount of wriggling could free him: it was an old-style animal, stuffed with hefty fluff, not polystyrene beans or anything else that had give. He was trapped.

The faint squeak of a wheel increased his frantic, pointless struggle. She couldn’t find him now!

John had been right. If he got out of this he’d admit it. Maybe.

The pile of toys began to shift. The girl was setting things to rights. Maybe he could dig himself further in, and she wouldn’t see—

The plan screeched to a halt as her hand sought him out. For a moment he flashed back to the toy shop, where he’d almost met his doom at the hands of a child not much younger than this.

He went limp.

The girl’s grip was gentle as she drew him from under the stack of toys. Large brown eyes, light blond hair, slight features. She didn’t resemble her father aside from length in limbs, clearly resembled her deceased mother. She’d survived the car accident that had killed her mother with paralyzed legs. Worried that her father blamed her for surviving. She’d struggled with these feelings for some time now, ate like a bird, tried her hardest as school for positive attention, had turned to vexing her father at home for any attention.

She frowned slightly. “What are you?”

He didn’t answer, holding his breath. She may still think he was a toy.

“You’re turning blue, you know.” She wheeled one-handed to the desk and gently set him down. “Is that better?”  
He took a halting breath. Best move on. “…Thank you.”

“Were you trying to fool me?” She gazed at him calmly. “ ‘Cause I could feel your heartbeat.”

“Um…I was frightened.” Sherlock felt very awkward. This was all wrong. He should have been making merry, trying to get her to believe he was an elf come to warn her off.

“Oh. Mr. Em was frightened too before I talked to him.” She tilted her head. “You’re not another tooth fairy. You haven’t got wings.”

“No, I am not a tooth fairy.” Sherlock got to his feet. “I’m an elf.” 

Amy giggled. “No you’re not!”

“Of course I’m an elf, what else would I be?”

“You haven’t got pointy ears.” She reached out and gently brushed a few strands of hair from the side of his head.

He jerked away. “That’s a myth, and do NOT touch me.”

Her hand dropped away. “It’s too early for Christmas.” 

“I never said I was a Christmas elf. There are others.” Sherlock grumbled. 

“You’ve got a costume on.”

“It is not a costume!” Sherlock snapped. 

“Yes it is!” Amy wheeled over to the stack of toys and began digging around.

“Look, you’re just a little girl. I think I know what I—“ Sherlock’s voice dropped away as Amy lifted aloft a small doll wearing his exact clothing. It was also plush, a smile stitched into its bland, vacant face.

“It’s a ‘Mr. Poppyworth from down the Lane’ doll.” She stood it up next to him. “From telly.”

Damn John.

“The telly people copied me.” Sherlock lied smoothly. “Obviously. They wanted it to be realistic.”

“You’ve got a tag.” She pointed to a small white tuft sticking out from the back of his shirt.

His face flamed. “It does not matter what I’m wearing! I’m six inches tall, obviously I’m an elf!”

“No. You’re pretending. Like Mr. Em.”

“I am no—you know he’s pretending?” He’d been surprised for the second time in as many minutes. Not a good trend.

She blinked. “His wings are pretend: He can’t fly.”

“Then why did you call him a tooth fairy?”

“He takes the teeth and gives me presents. That’s his job.” She looked at him like he was a bit thick. “He’s too little for a grown-up job. So are you. So, what are you, then?”

“I am a detective.” Time for a new tactic. 

“Oh. Have I done something bad?” She looked a little concerned. “Mr. Em told me to tell my friends about him. It was okay even when the news people came.”

“No, you haven’t been bad. Mr. Em has, and I’ve come to stop him.” Sherlock tried to dumb it down as much as was appropriate. “He’s a bad man.”

“He’s nice. He gives me a whole pound for my tooth.” Her expression became guarded.

“So? He can still be bad.” Sherlock crossed his arms. “Nice people are bad all the time.”

“No they’re not.” She looked scandalized. 

“Okay, the reverse then: your father isn’t nice, but he’s still a good man. More or less.” 

“You shut up about my Daddy!” Her voice rose to a shriek. 

Sherlock winced from the sheer volume. Father issues, she should be agreeing! “It was a bloody compliment! He’s alcoholic and distant, but honest!”

“Stop it stop it stop it!” She wheeled away from him, screeching. 

Sherlock clapped hands over his ears and grimaced, eyes squeezed shut. She wouldn’t hear him over the screams, but someone else would hear her. He had to get out of here before they caught him. Why did children have to be so bloody childish?!

A loud CLOP drowned out the cries. Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

The world around him had taken on a distorted look. Swallowing, he reached out. His fingers quickly met resistance. Above him, the girl was white-faced with rage.

She’d trapped him in a jar.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued


	11. Chapter 11

John watched the building from his car. As night slowly came on, no one showed up to slip in through the girl’s window. Goons failed to materialize in the bushes. The maid left, but other than that the streets were quiet.

At one point John was sure he heard a high-pitched scream, but it was over far too quickly for him to act. If it had been a scream. If it had come from the house.

He had to get closer. Still too bright to hide in the hedges. He’d have to wait. Getting tossed in jail for stalking a little girl wouldn’t help.

He clenched his fists every time a car went by, but none stopped. Still too early for Moriarty to make his move.

Frustrated, edgy, and bored, John resorted to the radio for companionship. An American rock station, classical music, jazz from the eighties, and news. He settled on the droning cricket scores, mind a million miles away.

He found himself touching his empty pocket every so often, not once finding Sherlock. 

0o0

Thirty minutes. That’s how much time he had before the air became unbreathable. There was no room for a running start; if there had been he would have been able to knock the glass over. By the time John got sick of waiting, he’d have expired.  
Only one avenue of possible escape.

He knocked on the glass, banged on the glass, shouted at the top of his lungs, but to no avail. The girl was ignoring him, eyes flashing furiously over her book. 

Time to try something new.

Sherlock slumped to the desktop, shoulders hunched. The girl looked at him for a split second, trying to remain unnoticed. Perfect. On to phase two.

Sherlock turned his back to her and buried his face in his hands. He began jerking his shoulders, as if he were holding back sobs. No need to actually sob until she lifted the glass: she couldn’t hear him anyway. 

After a minute or two he was rewarded with a loud grinding sound and a small flow of fresh air. She’d tilted the glass.  
He began the sobs in earnest, tears flowing freely. He’d need them for when she asked if he was okay in a minute or so. He’d trained himself to cry on command before he was her age: it had gotten him out of more scrapes than one.

“Um…hello? Are you okay?” The jar lifted up and away.

Sherlock didn’t turn around. He sniffled and pretended he hadn’t heard her. He needed just a little more to cement any lingering doubts in the girl’s head that he was sincere. “Oh, I _try > _to be a good detective, I really do…”__

__“It’s alright.” The girl sounded concerned. “I’m sorry about the jar. Really.”_ _

__“It’s j-just that Mr. Em has,” he swallowed his pride. Had to get her on his side, this was the way to do it. “outsmarted me so often.”_ _

__He felt sick just saying it._ _

__“What do you mean?”_ _

__He scrubbed at his face, leaving just enough tears for impact. “He’s not really a tooth fairy. He sneaks into children’s rooms and pretends to be one so he can steal their parent’s things. The children get blamed. I’ve been trying to catch him for so long…”_ _

__“Really?” Her eyes had grown huge._ _

__“Oh yes. Did Mr. Em ever ask you about something in your father’s study?” Sherlock’s expression was open and a tad anxious. He didn’t bother to inflect his voice any higher: to her ears it was already a squeak._ _

__“Daddy’s important papers.” She looked horrified. “He wants to steal them?”_ _

__“Yes. But if I can catch him, the police will put him in jail and all the things he’s stolen can go back to their owners.” Sherlock got to his feet. “I’m sorry I upset you. I just want to help the other little boys and girls.”_ _

__God, if he said any more of this sugary dribble his teeth would rot out. But it had served its purpose: she was on his side now._ _

__“Can I do anything to help?” She looked frightened. “I don’t want him to steal anything from Daddy.”_ _

__“Well…maybe.” Sherlock screwed up his face as if he were thinking on a hard choice. “If you can pretend I’m not here when he comes, I can surprise him.”_ _

__“I think I can do that.” She nodded. “You won’t hurt him?”_ _

__“Oh, no. I’m a Detective, we don’t hurt people.” He nearly slipped and let loose a grin._ _

__0o0_ _

__As the darkness finally fell, John slipped out of his car and up to the ground floor windows. He peeked through a few, trying to locate Sherlock._ _

__He was rewarded with the sight of Sherlock and an adorable little girl seated around a desk, eating biscuits and drinking tea._ _

__Sherlock’s gaze swept over the window, and for a split-second his eyes narrowed in annoyance. Clearly he hadn’t counted on John finding him in this position._ _

__Suppressing a smile, John slipped back to the car._ _

__0o0o0_ _

__To be continued..._ _


	12. Chapter 12

When bedtime arrived, Sherlock wasn’t surprised to see the girl’s father actually coming to tuckcher in. It was little more than a quick peck and a goodnight, but he still came. The ritual was the one thread of contact with life before the death of the mother he was unwilling to give up.

Once he was sure the father was gone, he emerged from his hiding spot; the Victorian dollhouse. John would undoubtedly make some joke if he knew, but it was the best place to conceal himself for the time being. Close enough to the window so that when Moriarty came in he’d be able to reach him, far enough from the door so that if someone checked in they wouldn’t spot him. John would detain any full-sized thugs that trailed Moriarty. He had full confidence in that. All he had to do was wait it out.

The girl sat up in bed. “Mr. Sherlock! Mr. Sherlock!”

“Yes, Amy?” He forced himself not to sound cross. Children didn’t fall asleep that quickly, especially when tiny criminals and detectives invaded their room.

“Mr. Em usually comes right at ten o’clock. He wakes me up, even when he tries to be quiet.” She whispered excitedly. “Does that help?”

“Yes, thank you.” Ten. That was two hours away. Time to survey the room, perhaps even contact John if he could find a phone somewh—

“Mr. Sherlock?”

“Yes?” Irritation crept into his voice. He didn’t like dealing with children. They were usually more honest than their adult counterparts, but they were loud, simple, and above all, childish.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to do anything to help?”

“Amy, you are helping a lot just by pretending to sleep. So lie down and pretend in case he comes early.”

“Alright.” Amy flopped back onto the bed. Classic people-pleasing complex, looking for love and approval since her father didn’t provide it. Not helpful to his cause in the slightest now that she’d agreed to lure Moriarty. He wasn’t worried about her safety. John would stop anyone big enough to hurt her long before they got inside. She wouldn’t go with him willingly now. Moriarty couldn’t do much to her, even if he had a miniature gun or a knife on his person. 

He wished he had something; a needle would serve as a rapier. Not that he expected Moriarty to do much fencing. The man was clearly trained in a number of things, but he wasn’t one for proper fighting of any kind. Biting and eye-gouging and clawing were more his style if he ever got caught in a bind. Sherlock wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking he’d fight anything close to fair.

Then again, there was always the possibility of a full-grown Moriarty climbing in that window.

Sherlock shuddered. If that happened, he’d follow Moriarty, but would not reveal himself. He couldn’t risk capture again in this state. He’d never allow himself to fall into those cool hands again. 

“Mr. Sherlock?”

The girl. She could give him away. Damn it, what the hell could he do if she gave him up? Well, there was always running and hiding. He could crawl into some tiny space that Moriarty couldn’t reach and hope John would rescue him.

“Mr. Sherlock?”

No, if he did that Moriarty would just take the girl hostage. His game would already be up, what did he have to lose at that point? As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, liked the idea of Moriarty taking the girl even less than his own abduction. 

Moriarty wasn’t above killing children. Sherlock wasn’t eager to imagine what else he (or someone in his employ) might not be above.

“Mr. Sherlock!”

“What?!”

Amy pointed to the window. “Mr. Em’s coming!”

“Get down!” Sherlock hissed and ducked back inside the dollhouse. If she was wrong, nothing would be lost except time. This wasn’t the moment to start double-guessing his otherwise truthful informant.

To Sherlock’s horror, something full-sized was at the window. It wasn’t John, profile all wrong, much too tall besides. It wasn’t Moriarty either, small favor there. Likely one of his thugs. He refused to call them ‘henchmen’ like Moriarty some sort of super-villain. 

Sherlock hardly dared to breathe as the shadowy figure opened the window. Amy didn’t move, good girl. Of course, she had no idea of the danger she was in if things went wrong.

To his relief, the figure deposited something on the sill and retreated. Moriarty, certainly. He could see the ridiculous false wings from here. He watched as Moriarty ran along the sill, onto the wainscoting, towards Amy’s bed. 

Sherlock raced from the house, quiet and sleek as a cat rushing through the carpet. He reached the head of Amy’s bed and began to climb. The blanket had plenty of loose fibers for him to cling to. He’d catch Moriarty. He’d drag him away, find John somehow, and wring his neck until he gave up the antidote formula. He hated Moriarty and he hated being small, and now he could combine those hates into one glorious triumph. It was almost over. It—

He crested the blanket, and his eyes went wide.

“No.” He felt the word bubble to his lips and clamped down on it.

It was Moriarty. The figure before him crept towards Amy’s head, taking no notice of the tiny man clinging to the edge of the bed.

Moriarty was twelve inches high.

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	13. Chapter 13

The plan came clear immediately. Moriarty visited Amy each night, growing larger little by little every time, telling her some fairy tale about the reason why. She hadn’t mentioned it. Why would she? She was six. It must have seemed as normal as anything else that had happened to her.

He’d been so bloody stupid! Moriarty didn’t need to be full size to handle himself. At twelve inches he was a relative giant; Sherlock would be like a child in his hands. Easily small enough to be taken out of the window, kicking and screaming. 

Moriarty had crept up to Amy’s head. “Amy, my dearest friend. Wake up!”

His sugary sing-song voice was perfect for this act. Sherlock’s stomach clenched. Even if Amy had the sense to play along, there was nowhere to go from here: either she would do what he said, or Sherlock would reveal himself and be spirited away. 

John. He had to contact John. He’d subdue Moriarty easily. But he was probably outside trying to handle the guard situation, as Sherlock had asked.

“Mr. Em?” Amy blinked slowly. “You’re early.”

“I know. That’s because I’ve got a lovely surprise for you.” Moriarty cooed. He hadn’t noticed Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s gaze flew over the bed, trying to find some way to stop this without revealing himself. If Moriarty lured Amy outside, John might rescue her. But there were at least two men waiting outside, and very loyal ones at that, probably Sebastian among them. Moriarty wouldn’t trust just anyone to handle him at a foot high.

“What is it?” Amy sounded frightened and Sherlock winced. Moriarty would know something was wrong.

Moriarty stiffened. “Are you alright, my dearest? You seem…off.”

“I’m fine. “ Amy’s eyes were dark and unblinking. “I’m just sleepy.”

Sherlock ducked as Moriarty’s head began to turn. “You haven’t had a visitor?”

“No.” The lie was plain. Sherlock’s hands tightened on the blanket. Climb down and hide, leaving the girl to her fate, or stay still and hope John made his move? Bad options.

“I’m glad. A very mean man has been following me. He’s told all my friends I’m a bad tooth fairy.”

“He has?”

“Yes. He used to be a tooth fairy, but got sacked for lying.” Moriarty’s voice was smooth as silk. “Now he wants me to get sacked.”

“That’s awful.” Amy sounded horrified.

“Yes, it is. But, if no one’s been by to see you—“

“Wait…I have seen someone.” 

Sherlock’s heart sank. Stupid, stupid child! 

“And what did he look like?” Moriarty asked gently.

“She was blond and just a little smaller than you. She had lovely green wings!”

“…What?”

Sherlock peeked over the edge of the bed. Moriarty looked utterly baffled. As well he should; nobody had planned for this.

Her hands were slowly gathering the edges of the blanket. “She came and said she was the real tooth fairy, but that you worked for her. Then we went on a lovely trip, flying over the trees.”

Slowly, she brought her hands together behind Moriarty, the blanket rising like some great linen tide.

“Amy…might this have been a dream?” Moriarty looked so confused. Sherlock filed that image away for later gloating.

“Maybe. But she was so pretty and nice and—YAHHH!”

On YAHHH she brought her hands together, wrapping Moriarty in a ball of fabric. The man began shrieking that he would skin her, flay her, burn her, and a slew of other cooking-related verbs. But he couldn’t break free. 

Sherlock scrambled atop the bed. “You knew he was lying?” 

She blinked at him slowly. “Why would he come round each night? I’ve only lost one tooth.”

“Do you have a phone? I need to contact my partner.” 

She nodded to her bedside. “For emergencies.”

“Well, I’d say this qualifies.” Sherlock was able to jump to the tabletop. A small phone with colorful buttons lay on it. Sherlock hurriedly dialed John. Moriarty was still screaming. 

“Sherlock, where are you? I saw them leave Moriarty, but I can’t get any closer without revealing my position.” 

“I’m with Amy. We’ve caught Moriarty. Come round to the front door, the key code is OSI.” Sherlock said smoothly.

“You’ve caught—I’ll be right there.” John hung up. It didn’t bear asking questions.

“Mr. Sherlock? He’s strong.” Amy pressed the squirming lump down on her dead legs. “Should I cover him with a pillow?”

“Why, what a wonderful idea.” Sherlock let a smile grace his face. 

0o0o0o0o0

Ti be continued...


	14. Chapter 14

John hurried down the hall, the small cries from the bedroom guiding him. A small girl beamed up at him as he thrust the door open. Her hands were holding down a large fluffy pillow over a struggling lump.

“I caught him!”

“She most certainly did.” Sherlock spoke up from the bedside table.

“Are you alright?” John scooped him into one hand.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock let John deposit him into his coat pocket. “Just grab Moriarty and let’s go. Also, small detail, he’s about a foot high, so be careful.”

John stuttered in mid grab. “Okay, that’ll be fun to deal with.”

He picked up the struggling figure in the blanket, leaving the girl with a sheet covering her legs. 

“You’ll take him to the police?”

“Yes I will.” John gave her a weak smile. “Thank you very much, Amy. You’ll uh, keep this quiet?”

“I guess.” She looked disappointed. “Bye Mr. Sherlock.”

“Goodbye Amy.” Sherlock looked up at John. “We’re going to set off the alarm when we leave. Don’t be frightened.”

“I won’t.” She snuggled back down under the sheets. John hefted the wriggling bundle under one arm and grabbed a spare from the foot of the bed. He tossed it over her and hurried out as fast as possible.

“Why are we setting off the alarm?” He ignored the shrieks from Moriarty.

“To scare off his henchmen.” Sherlock smiled wickedly. They’d fallback when they realized Moriarty was compromised, leaving Amy alone. “Don’t go back to the flat, they may look for us there.”

“Where should I--OW!” John almost dropped the bundle as something sharp jabbed him. He stumbled out the door and raced for the car, slamming it behind him. Instantly the alarm began to bray. Sherlock winced and ducked his head under the cloth flap, ears ringing.

John jumped into the car and tried to get moving while keeping a hand on the blanket. A droplet of blood seeped from his injured finger. Moriarty had gone silent. “Fuck, what was that?”

A chill rilled down Sherlock’s spine. Moriarty had jabbed John with something, then gone silent. Not good. “Drive, John. Quick!”

John pulled the car into gear, heart hammering. “Where am I going?”

“Towards anything with a camera so Mycroft will see and send some--” Sherlock’s teeth chattered together as John drove over a curb. “John!”

“My vision’s blurred--shit, Sherlock, that was a hypodermic!” John was trying desperately to keep the car under control, but it was getting harder by the second. The wheel feld unwieldy in his hands, almost as if...as if…

The car rolled to a stop below a lonely hillock, “You fucking bastard!”

Sherlock tumbled out of John’s pocket as the man lunged for the blanket-wrapped villain. He’d been trying to climb out anyway and managed to slid along John’s coat rather than plummet to the floor. He landed on the mat, bruised but unbroken. Above him, John was shouting and struggling with Moriarty.

“You bastard, I just got over being shrunk!” John could already feel the effects. This wasn’t going to take three hours. More like three minutes. Already his clothes were beginning to billow around him. “Did you supercharge this?!”

Moriarty grinned as the final bit of blanket between him and John fell away. “Why Doctor Watson, that’s very good. Almost as quick as Sherlock!”

John grabbed him with both hands and applied just enough pressure to cause pain. “You tell us about the antidote or I swear before I’m too small I’ll kill you.”

“And then you and Shirley will both be miniatures forever. What a lovely little dollhouse you could set up!” The grin faded from his face. “Or you can let me go, and I’ll let you live when Sebastian retrieves me. Which should be momentarily.”

“He’s lying!” Sherlock began a difficult climb up John’s loosening pant leg. “Moran will go back to HQ to await new orders. Don’t let go.”

“Easy for you to say.” John grunted as Moriarty seemingly grew to the size of a small child. John was already half his normal height and shrinking fast. “Give us the antidote formula or I’ll kill you now.”

Moriarty looked towards the window with a sigh. “I suppose the fun couldn’t last forever. Shirley, be a love and listen carefully: John won’t be able to remember all this.”

He broke into a series of chemicals and ratios. It wasn’t the complexity that overwhelmed John: the sheer amount of stuff was. Even if he wasn’t clutching a struggling supervillain and shrinking to doll size, he’d be hard pressed to remember it. 

Finally, when he was only twice Moriarty’s size, he let go. Sherlock stood on the seat beside him, the size of a large toy, and gaining. “John, open the door quickly, before you’re too small to manage.”

John did so, no bothering to complain. He’d only be labor for a few more moments, best do what he could. “Shall we do this together? Two on one, good odds.”

“Touch me again and you’ll be eating those words with your tongue as an appetizer.” Moriarty hissed, joviality gone. 

“Expecting Sebastian to fly to your aid by now?” Sherlock sneered. 

Moriarty looked down at him. “Don’t test me, Shirley. I can still cut you down to size.”

The door finally opened a crack and John dropped onto the seat, exhausted. He was just about Moriarty’s size now, drowning in his own clothes. “Leave off, you psychopath. If Mycroft hasn’t seen us and Sebastian isn’t coming, we’ll all be here for some time.”

Sherlock frowned as John approached his size. “What about your phone?”

“Good idea.” John vanished into his clothes to search. He had a pocket square somewhere here as well, as least he wouldn’t be naked…

Moriarty watched him, but didn’t attempt an escape. Sherlock watched him as John searched. Soon the only sound was John shuffling about in his discarded clothing.

“I can’t find it!” John’s voice emerged as the shuffling grew frantic. “I must have dropped it somewhere.”

He emerged and stifled a gasp. He wouldn’t give Moriarty the satisfaction. He’d forgotten how gigantic everything looked from down here. “Wow.”

He nearly fell over when Sherlock appeared. The detective seemed to be twice his usual size.

“What...how…” John let out a squeak. He was about two and three quarters of an inch high. Slightly less than half Sherlock’s height. “DAMNIT!”

Behind them, Moriarty chuckled.

0o0o0o0o0


	15. Chapter 15

“Let me go, I’m going to fucking murder him!”

“Not when you can barely reach his kneecap!” Sherlock tightened his hold on the doctor. “John, I am slightly more than twice your size, and I can easily--ARGH!”

The ARGH followed John’s elbow slamming into Sherlock’s side. Sherlock dropped the tiny doctor (tiny by even his dwindled standards), wincing. John wasted no time in sprinting across the seat towards the criminal mastermind.

Moriarty watched him, disinterested. “Yes?”

John pulled up short, the sheer enormity of the disparity hitting him all at once. “I should have squashed you when I had the chance. I won’t make that mistake again. Not after what you did to Sherlock.”

Moriarty giggled at this. “Oh, you’re just precious. I must get Sebastian to try this later so I can have my own little pet.”

John’s heart hammered, too angry to be afraid. He looked back at Sherlock, who was hurrying towards them. “Make no mistake, when this is over I’m not going to stop until you pay.”

“How exciting!” Moriarty clapped his hands together. “You’re much more fun pocket-sized, Doctor. I must remember that.”

Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t give him the satisfaction, John.”

John shot one last glare at Moriarty before allowing Sherlock to lead him to the other end of the seat.

“It’s not bad enough I’ve already been shrunk, no, he had to give me a bloody double-dose--”

“If you’ll stop complaining for five minutes, I may be able to get us out of this.” 

That got John’s attention. “Storing a chem lab in the glove compartment?”

“Not one that could meet our needs now.” Sherlock looked back at Moriarty. “And I don’t trust the formula he gave: I need a test subject.”

John looked up at him. “So we’ve got to subdue Moriarty until we can figure out a way to get help, then test the formula on him.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock looked to the door. John had opened it a crack before he’d gotten too small. “If Moran gets here or Moriarty tries to leave, we’re not in a position to impede him.”

John snorted. “Putting it lightly.”

“I need to think. Alert me if he moves.” Sherlock sat, crossed his legs, steepled his fingers, and closed his eyes.

John opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t think of anything to say. What the hell did you say at a time like this? Better just try and think of a solution.

‘What can we do to get help? We’re not near any cameras, so Mycroft is out. I’d call Molly if my phone hadn’t turned up missing. I’d even call Lestrade, if I could.’

Moriarty was staring out the window, face blank and slightly angry. John took a backwards step closer to Sherlock. If Moriarty came at them, there was very little they’d be able to do: Sherlock would be like a child in his hands. 

‘And I’m more like a toy to him.’ He thought grimly. ‘Unless Sherlock can out-think him before he gets too bored, we’re both in very big trouble.’

The sound of a muffles door slam brought Sherlock out of his concentration. “What’s happening?”

“No idea.” John raced to the edge of the seat, close to the door. “Sherlock, I hear footsteps!”

Moriarty perked up. “That will be my ride, gentlemen. Our ride, I should say.” 

“And if it’s not Moran?” Sherlock picked John up, over a protesting cry from the doctor.

Moriarty’s eye twitched. “It’s Moran. Running won’t change that, Shirley.”

“No, it won’t...assuming it’s true.” Sherlock jumped onto the floor mat and squirmed under the seat, urging John ahead. A few seconds later a slightly larger THUMP landed on the passenger side. Sherlock smiled to himself.

“What do we do if it is Moran?” John squirmed through a spring the size of a manhole.

“We try to avoid capture.”

“That’s your brilliant plan?!”

“I’m planning on it not being Moran.” Sherlock snapped, wriggling after him. It was a tight fit, even for his slender frame. “But until I have more information, I’m at an impasse!”

The pocket square snagged as John crawled out of the spring, and he had to grab at it to keep from being undressed. “If we survive this I’m going to hide emergency doll clothes and cell phones everywhere I go.”

Sherlock squirmed through the last bit, feeling uncomfortably squashed. “What are the odds of this happening again?”

“About as good as it happening at all, I’d say.” John snickered. After a few seconds, Sherlock joined him in muffled giggles. 

The laughter stopped as the door squeaked open.


	16. Chapter 16

“‘Ello?” A gruff, unfamiliar voice sounded off as someone shuffled around the car. John was sure Sherlock was devising all sorts of information based on the man’s voice alone, but he had very little. “Stupid fucking teenagers leaving their clothes and going on a spree.” 

The door slammed shut. “Now what?”

“The officer will call for a tow truck and drag us to an impound lot.” Sherlock said calmly. “If Mycroft sees the car he may realize what has happened and send help.”

“And if not we’re trapped in here with Moriarty.” 

“Give me time, I’ll find another way.” Sherlock stared into the distance. John groaned and buried his face in his hands. 

After a short while, the car rumbled forward, hitched to a tow truck. The vibrations shook John down to his bones. After a few moments of teeth-chattering, Sherlock reached out and wrapped his arms around the smaller man.

“Thanks.” John managed once the vibrations smoothed out.

“I was just stopping that awful noise.” Sherlock muttered.

“I don’t care.”

“Isn’t that sweet?” Moriarty’s cloying voice snapped John out of the micro-second of well being. 

Sherlock let go of him and turned stiffly to face their tormenter. “Your rescuer isn’t coming, Moriarty. Unless you’ve come to either attack us or help us find a solution, get back on your side.”

Moriarty sighed. “As much as I hate the old cliche of working together until the mutual problem is solved, it would make everything go much faster.”

“You have a plan?” Sherlock still looked disinterested. John wasn’t sure if it was real or feigned at this point. His perceptions were skewed beyond reason.

“I do.” Moriarty pulled a small device from his pocket. “A tracker. We need to get as high as possible so the signal won’t be blocked.”

“And then Moran can come for us. Thanks, but no.” John said. “Besides, you don’t need us for that.”

Moriarty’s face darkened. “I don’t need you. It’s just easier.”

John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him. By some miracle, he held his tongue. John resisted the urge to put more distance between himself and the psychotic scowling at them. Fight or flight was a great instinct when you reached above your antagonist’s knee.

“We are at an impasse.” Moriarty watched John, no doubt reading his every thought via a million tiny ques. 

“Like hell.” John squirmed back, emerging just behind the seat. 

Sherlock followed him a moment later, curious. “Are you planning on trying to locate a hole in the vehicle, or just evade Moriarty?”

“Let’s call it both.” John looked around, but the car seemed to be in perfect order. Granted, all he could see was the backseat. “Boost me up maybe I can get into the boot if I get onto the seat.”

“Possible.” Sherlock knelt down. “Cimb on my back, we’ll both look.”

John felt undeniably weird about that, but there was little else they could do. He climbed onto Sherlock’s back and clung as tightly as he could. “Alright.”

Sherlock scaled the fabric wall easily: It was only a few times his height. “If we can get into the boot, then what? Try and escape from the tail lights? At our size we’ll be vulnerable to the elements, wildlife, not to mention anyone who might spot us--”

“Sherlock, can we just try and get away from Moriarty before we worry about the next step?”

“I’m always worried about the next step.” Sherlock scrambled onto the seat. 

John let go, dropping to the soft fabric. “Besides, if we don’t move quickly that psycho will catch up.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked back to the seat. Eyes seemed to be looking out from the darkness at him. “Let’s get moving.”

They checked the seats (no small difficulty with the car moving, taking the occasional turn that nearly sent John off his feet) and as John suspected, there was a way to get into the boot of the car. “So, do we try and get out of the trunk, or with Moriarty follow us into it and try to kill us there?”

“I could have killed you an hour ago.” Moriarty drawled from the edge of the seat. He was holding the tracker. “By all means, continue: this is the most entertainment I’ve had for a while.” 

John felt his rage stir again. “You’ve been tormenting us for weeks with this insanity! We’re not your fucking playthings.” 

“Well, Sherlock’s not at this scale.” Moriarty smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You, good Doctor, could easily fill that role.”

Sherlock shifted slightly, putting himself in front of John. “If Moran was tracking you, I think he’d be here by now. That signal is far too weak to reach any transmitter more than a mile away. Fail to calibrate it correctly?” 

The vestige of a smile was gone in an instant. Moriarty clambered onto the seat, tossing the tracker aside. 

Sherlock shoved John back, but didn’t have time to dodge the bigger man’s grasp. Moriarty lifted him off the seat by the lapels of his coat. He struggled, but Moriarty was more than equipped to handle him. 

“I should have done this sooner, little man.” Moriarty grasped Sherlock’s throat in one huge hand and squeezed. 

“NO!” John was doing something below Sherlock’s sightline. It didn’t matter. He was too small to affect the outcome of the fight. If Sherlock was lucky Moriarty would choke him into unconsciousness, but leave off before death...or at least brain-death. 

John, he hoped, would have time to squirm into some area Moriarty couldn’t squeeze into.

“STOP!” John did something that actually jarred Moriarty. To Sherlock’s amazement, he was dropped to the seat.

“You insignificant little NOTHING!” Moriarty roared, diving after John. 

Sherlock gasped, air filling his lungs, mind clearing. John was running across the seat, Moriarty sprinting after like a fairytale ogre. “Left!”

John dove to the left, off the edge of the seat. Moriarty tried to stop himself, but the seat was too springy and his momentum too great. He crashed into the door and slumped down, either dazed or unconscious. 

“John? John!” Sherlock scrambled to the edge. He’d counted on John’s reduced size saving him from grievous injury, but there was no way to be sure. John could be lying crumpled on the floor of the car, neck snapped, back broken--

John clambered over the seat, nearly colliding with the detective. “Stop screaming, I’m fine. I grabbed a bit of cloth on the way down.”

Sherlock accidentally let a moment of relief flit across his face before he is able to smooth his expression. “Just like I planned.”

“Sure.”

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued...


	17. Chapter 17

Now that Moriarty was knocked out, it left Sherlock and John free to figure a way out of the car, if not the predicament.

“We can get through there, no problem.” John inspected the small opening between the boot and the back seat. “But then what?”

“It’ll keep us from being discovered by the tow truck driver.” Sherlock squirmed forwards. “And Moriarty is too big to get through here.”

John hurried after him. He only had to stoop a little. “I don’t like being this small, but it’s handy sometimes.”

“With any luck you won’t have time to get used to it.” Sherlock stood up in the slanted trunk and slid backwards. He grabbed ungracefully for a handhold, but found none. John watched as he slid into the dark, followed by a minute thud.

“Sherlock!” John ducked down, grabbing the floor with both hands to prevent sliding.

“I’m fine!” Sherlock grumbled. “Found the taillight. We can push it out if necessary.”

“And then what?” John didn’t crawl forward just yet. “We’re trapped somewhere in London, tiny, and have only ourselves to test the formula on? Assuming the driver doesn’t take him somewhere.”

“I’d rather be like this and out there then stay with Moriarty.” Sherlock replied, massaging his neck. They wouldn’t be able to subdue him again. Testing the formula on anyone but themselves wasn’t going to happen.

John couldn’t argue with that. He let go, preparing to inch down the boot to Sherlock.

“You idiotic nit.” Moriarty hissed, hand curled in John’s clothing, yanking him backwards. 

“SHERLOCK!” John wasn’t sure if his cry was a warning, or one for help. Both, maybe. But he was powerless to stop the gigantic man. He was hauled up, Moriarty’s huge limbs coiled around him. He struggled and kicked, but couldn’t hope to win out with sheer strength. He was the size of a doll to Moriarty. A large doll, but still.

He twisted John’s arm behind his back. “When Shirley comes running, I’ll snap your tiny neck, then dispose of him, you worthless little flea.”  
John tried to shout, but his windpipe was blocked by a massive arm. He managed a squeak. 

“John!” Sherlock scrabbled up the slanted surface, roaring. He couldn’t see what Moriarty was doing, but he heard John cry out in pain. “Leave him alone!”

“Come and get him.” Moriarty did something else unseen, and John cried out again.

Sherlock crested the edge, the spot between safety and danger, crossing it without a second thought. Some part of his mind realized the car had finally stopped. This would be over, one way or another, in a matter of minutes.

Moriarty had an arm under John’s neck. John’s face was red, his lips beginning to turn blue. He was clawing at the massive arm, but there was little and less he could do to hurt someone four times his size.

Moriarty lifted his free hand and placed it on top of John’s head. “Say goodbye, Sherlock.”

“No!” Sherlock dove at him, not knowing how he would stop him, just that he had to. 

Nobody expected the deafening SMASH and glass flying about.

Sherlock was knocked down by the flat side of a large piece of glass. He heard John gasp: Moriarty must have let go. He looked up, and saw John laying on his back, coughing, covered in glass shards. Moriarty lay nearby, trying to get to his feet without cutting himself to ribbons.

“Freeze!” A voice thundered from above. 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “Lestrade?!”

A very confused inspector had his gun trained on the tiny master criminal. “Mycroft sent me. I thought it was a joke.”

“Well, it’s not. Get him!” Sherlock darted forward, snatching John away from Moriarty’s reach. John clutched Sherlock’s costume tightly, still gasping and coughing for breath. 

Lestrade kept his gun trained on Moriarty and slowly opened the door. “Mr. Moriarty. Please walk to me with your hands up.”

Moriarty gave him a disinterested look. “And if I don’t, you’ll shoot me, and leave poor little Shirley and John without a hope of getting back to normal.”

“No, I’ll reach in, grab you, and throw you into a shoebox.” Lestrade tucked the gun away. “That was just for show.”

Moriarty slowly raised his hands, smiling. “Well. I am getting bored of being this size.”

“Here, Sherlock.” Lestrade offered a hand, not taking his eyes off Moriarty. “Let me get the two of you out of there.”

Sherlock didn’t put John down, but edged backwards, Doctor in his arms. “Very well. I assume Mycroft called Molly too?”

“Yes. She’s all ready at the lab to do...whatever.” Lestrade was hiding his amazement very well.

Sherlock stepped back onto his hand. John removed his arms from Sherlock’s neck. “Um. You can put me down now.”

“Oh. Um. Of course.” Sherlock released his grip, dropping John to the fleshy surface.

“He was going to kill you.” John stayed close to his friend.

“I know.” Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“You had a plan?”

“I always have a plan.”

John elected not to probe any further than that. 

0o0o0o0o0

To be continued....


	18. Chapter 18

Moriarty sat quietly in the backseat as they drove to the lab. Lestrade had taken the tracker, so there was no danger of him contacting Moran. Sherlock and John were seated on the passenger seat. It was bumpy and uncomfortable, but more than worth it.

Lestrade kept stealing glances at them. John couldn’t blame him; it was a hell of a thing to see.

When they pulled up to the lab, Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. Mycroft was there. “Damn him. He just had to stick his fat nose in.”

“He’s the one who got Lestrade to rescue us.” John reminded him as Mycroft opened the passenger door. Sherlock muttered something under his breath. John held in a grin.

“Dr. Watson. Sherlock.” Mycroft’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Doing well, I trust?”

“Just fine.” Sherlock gritted his teeth. Lestrade was dealing with Moriarty in the backseat. Which meant--

Mycroft laid his hand in front of them. “May I?”

“Seeing as there is no other choice, yes.” Sherlock tried to maintain what little dignity he could, tin bells jingling merrily. John followed him, trying to stifle his laughter. 

“I understand the home you were visiting has been burgled, _little_ brother.”

Sherlock flinched at the emphasis. “We had to take the blanket. Moriarty was trapped in it.”

“Mm. I shall see that is is returned.” Mycroft’s hand was soft, but didn’t reek of lotions and creams at least. “Has Moriarty already given you the formula for the antidote?”

“Yes, but I suspect he may make one or two little changes once we make it clear he’ll be the first test subject.” Sherlock cautioned. 

Mycroft nodded. He walked slowly, and Sherlock didn’t feel like he was going to plummet to his death. John stood near him, but didn’t seem particularly worried either. The worst was behind them.

Surely.

Molly looked at John with a bit of horror as they descended the stairs into the lab. “Not again!”

“Fraid so.” John gave her a weak smile. “But we have the antidote. Probably.”

Molly’s nose wrinkled as a confused expression blossomed over her face. “I-I’m sorry?”

“She can’t hear you John. Or at least, she can’t hear a definable human voice.” Sherlock said. “You’re quite a bit smaller than the last time, and your voice was barely audible at that scale.”

“Are you telling me they only hear squeaks when I talk?” John waved his arm at the full-sized people in the lab.

“More or less.”

“That’s just brilliant.” John grumbled. 

“I guess he’s not very happy about that.” Molly addressed this to Sherlock, as if John couldn’t make out what she was saying either. He bit back a retort. Didn’t matter, she’d never hear it anyway.

“He’ll live. I can hear him, that’s what matters.” Sherlock said dismissively.

“I suppose--” Molly’s sentence cut as Lestrade entered. She watched as he man-handled a slightly-less complacent Moriarty into a nearby chair. “Mr. Moriarty.”

“Molly.” He grinned wickedly at her. “Oh, how I’ve missed your charms.”

She hunched her shoulders slightly. Sherlock felt a growl rising in his chest. John stiffened. He like the implications no more than Sherlock did. “Care to make any revisions to the antidote formula before Molly mixes it for you?”

Moriarty blinked placidly. “Why, no. Did you think I’d given you a false one before?”

“Fine then.” Sherlock began ticking off ingredients and ratios. Molly scrambled all over the lab, trying to get everything together. Mycroft had the good sense to stay out of her way. Lestrade looked a bit bewildered, but didn’t take his eyes off the master criminal. 

Finally, she had a greenish mixture bubbling away in a beaker. Distinctly different from the clear formula John had taken all those weeks ago.

“Last chance.” Sherlock warned as she measured out a tiny drop. Just enough to tell if it worked.

Moriarty stared at him, mouth a thin line. “Sherlock. Do you really think I’d shrink myself into oblivion just to spite you?”

“Yes, actually.” John piped up. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder, eyes locked on their nemesis. 

Moriarty glared at him. Slowly he closed his eyes and sighed. “Add one part sodium, Molly.”

She did so, and the mixture turned clear. The bubbles dissipated slowly. She measured out a clear drop and placed it on the table in front of Moriarty, not wanting to get too close to him. He picked up the unwieldy cup and sipped the drop.

“And now we wait.” Sherlock sat down next to John, eyes still on the criminal.

0o00o0o0o

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Holidays and such.


	19. Chapter 19

It took almost forty five minutes of uncomfortable staring before anything happened. To John’s relief, Moriarty grew several inches over the course of a few minutes. Moriarty just stared back at his captors, unruffled. Even his suit stretched to accommodate his new dimensions. He’d planned for this, apparently.

“So, he was telling the truth.” Lestrade’s expression jumped between relieved and amazed.

“Indeed.” Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. “Well then. Inspector, please hand Mr. Moriarty to the two officers that will arrive in several minutes. They’ll take matters from here.”

Lestrade gave him a cool look. “And I suppose this will all be classified?”

“Inspector, the last thing any of us want is for Sherlock and John to become more notorious than they already are; Surely you wouldn’t quibble over that for the sake of another arrest on your already impressive record.” Mycroft looked pointedly at Moriarty. “They’d spend the remainder of their days locked away in Baskerville.”

It might have been his imagination, but John thought the criminal’s smiled faltered for a split second.

“Fine.” Lestrade picked the criminal up, trying not to look ridiculous. “But this better not become a regular bloody occurrence.”

Moriarty shot Sherlock one last glare as he was carried to the door at the far end of the room, but for once, didn’t have a witty bon mot.

Sherlock smiled. “Well. That takes care of that little annoyance.”

“Was that your attempt at humor?” John asked. 

Sherlock ignored him. “Molly. If you’d be so kind as to measure the antidote into two batches, five milliliters for John, three for myself.”

“And that’ll get you back to normal?” Molly unwrapped two eye droppers.

“Oh, no. But it’ll bring us back to human norms, and we’ll be able to go from there.” 

“In other words, just enough so that you can go back to your flat and bear out the rest of this by yourselves.” Mycroft looked amused.

“That is a brilliant plan.” John looked relieved. He didn’t want to be in this ridiculous state any longer than necessary, but having witnesses about only made it worse. “Though I really don’t like the idea of growing of out this pocket square in front of your brother, Lestrade, and Molly.”

“Please John, it’s nothing they haven’t seen before.” Sherlock eyed the dropper greedily as Molly laid it on the table. He was fed up with this outfit, this size, and the whole pocket affair. Ah, to be able to walk around the flat, play his violin, and wear his normal clothes!  
It was almost better than solving cases. Almost.

John reached into the dropper (God, the thing was twice the size of the last one!) and drew out a sticky drop. “If I ever wind up this size again, I’m going to blame you, Sherlock.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ll be the one slipping chemicals into my tea to do experiments.”

Sherlock mulled this over for a moment. “That does sound intriguing.”

“Right. I’ll make my own tea for the next...forever.” John lifted the droplet to his lips.

The miniscule chuckle almost went right above Sherlock’s head. Moriarty was laughing. Why? The game was up. They knew the cure worked. John had used it before, with no ill effects. He’d been a bit bigger than his current size, true, for a tad longer--

Oh.

“Stop!” Sherlock slapped the liquid out of John’s hands.

“Sherlock, what the hell?!” The voices above echoed John’s cry. 

Sherlock turned to the corner, where Moriarty hadn’t even wiped the smile off his face. “It would have killed him, wouldn’t it? Going through size changes that quickly, with no chance to recover in between.”

Moriarty shrugged. “Well, either that or it just wouldn’t have worked. I haven’t got conclusive results just yet.”

John started, realizing what had almost happened. “ ‘Shrinking drains the body of it’s resources’. The last time I had weeks in between to recover before I took the antidote. I got whatever nutrients I needed, or my blood cells rebounded, or whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.”

Molly cleared her throat. “Um. So, you have to wait a few days to change back?”

“No, just John.” Sherlock sipped his own drop.

John pursed his lips. “Sherlock, if you grow back to normal size, there’ll be no one who can understand my voice!”

“Do you want to remain in their care, or go back to the flat with just me?” Sherlock asked.

“I want my idiotic friend not to leave me to deal with this situation all by myself!”

Lestrade watched them argue, feeling more than a bit awkward. “John doesn’t seem very happy about Sherlock getting back to normal without him.”

“He’d be even less happy dead.” Mycroft shrugged. “The officers are here, Inspector. Please go meet them.”

Lestrade cast one last glance at the tabletop before heading out. This was just too weird.

Molly watched them argue back and forth. “Sherlock, if John’s worried about the next few days, why don’t you just take the first half of the dosage? You should still be able to hear him at three feet or so, and you can still go back to the flat.”

The two tiny men fell silent.

“That’s not the worst idea.” John cleared his throat.

Sherlock didn’t look pleased. “It will do. Thank you Molly.”

“Well. Now that that’s sorted, I must be going.” Mycroft smiled wickedly. “Remind me to send you some of the footage Althea’s collected, little brother. It’s very entertaining.”

John watched him go. “Think he’d make me a copy if I asked politely?

Sherlock resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. This was worse than the hat.

0o0o0o0o0

To be concluded.


	20. Chapter 20

It took several hours, but Sherlock convinced Molly that at three feet high, he was able to take care of himself and John. John had been complaining under his breath most of the time, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. 

Lestrade had driven them back to 221b Baker street, with Sherlock wearing the detective’s spare shirt and feeling a bit of an idiot. The muffled snickers coming from Lestrade didn’t help.

“I’ll check in on you two tomorrow.” He moved to help Sherlock out of the car, but the consulting detective practically vaulted from the vehicle. He was done with everyone touching him.

“Easy!” John complained. Sherlock was holding him, and the jolt had been severe. 

“You don’t need to come by.” Sherlock reached for his key, forgetting it was in John’s clothes, heaped in the detective’s back seat.

“No, but your brother made me promise.” Lestrade stepped out of the car, clothes in one hand, key in the other. He unlocked the door. “I’ll just carry this up for you. Hands seem a bit full.”

“Thanks Greg.” John called. Lestrade nodded politely, getting the gist of John’s squeaks.

This was a weird day, even by Sherlock standards.

Sherlock resisted the urge to bolt up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson had to be asleep by now, and besides, his legs were too short to take the stairs that quickly. It’d probably make John throw up, too.

“Oh my Goodness!” 

The familiar squeal made Sherlock reconsider his decision. Vomit was easy to clean. “Good evening, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson clutched a cup of tea, giggling. “My goodness Sherlock, you’ve sprouted up like a weed.”

“Oh God, this humiliation is never going to end.” Sherlock groaned as Lestrade filled her in.

“You’re humiliated?” John smirked up at him. “What happened to not caring about what everyone thinks?”

“Most people won’t see me every day and remind me.” Sherlock took the stairs as fast as he could, leaving Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson to giggle to themselves.

“At least you’re halfway back to normal. I’ll have to wait a few days.”

“A week and a half.”

“WHAT?!”

“That was how long it was the last time between shrinking and antidote, and I don’t want to take chances.” Sherlock opened the door, ignoring how massive it looked from this size. “I’m not happy about it either; I’ll have to wait as well, to make sure someone can understand you.”

“Well sorry for the inconvenience.” John snapped. “At least you can still go outside and interact with the world, if you disguise yourself.”  
Sherlock considered this. “Hm. Not a bad idea. I’ll have to inform Lestrade to keep bringing me cases.”

“What? I only meant going down to the shops or something, not chasing criminals!”

“I wonder if I have any clothes I can alter to suit the purpose…” Sherlock set John down on the table, musing.

“Sherlock, don’t you dare leave me here to go mess about with disguises!” John was sorry he’d said anything in the first place.

Sherlock glanced at him, surprised. “Oh. No, I was just going to make a little evening tea before bed. I can go over my clothing in my mind palace. Do you want some tea?”

The question caught John off guard. “Um...yeah. I guess. You can’t really slip me anything until I’m back to normal.”

“Correct.” Sherlock pushed a chair to the kitchen counted and climbed atop it. “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing if extra antidote renders you taller than normal.”

“You just want to keep experimenting on me, you git.”

“What is your point?”

“Nothing, Sherlock.” John sat down as Sherlock attempted to make tea. It was sort of nice that through all the insanity of the last month, some things didn’t change. Even if that meant he was back to being Pocket Sized for the next week and a half.

He was still going to make his own tea from now on.

0o0o0o0o0

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks much for sticking with me during this bout of insanity. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
